


taking form

by moltenglass



Category: My Own Private Idaho (1991)
Genre: Angst, Drunken Shenanigans, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, its just angst lol good luck, mike is my son that i birthed, obligatory scott favor is bad at feelings fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:35:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moltenglass/pseuds/moltenglass
Summary: If Scott has been simply misplaced into Mike's life by some random error of the universe, why does being held by him feel like finally falling into place?
Relationships: Scott Favor & Mike Waters, Scott Favor/Mike Waters
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	taking form

" _if i would break into pieces,_  
_if i would fake the details,_  
_i could get lost in your words_."

  
Another comedown in shudders, sniffles and hitched breaths. Mike is laying on the cold mattress in the smothering darkness of his room, clinging to the last wisps of the passing high that the remaining milligrams of coke grant him. A high that never amounts to the first line you do, and wears off twice as fast. As he’s coming down, he reaches that part of the cycle where he questions if a gram of coke is worth what he does to get it. His body feels like a boulder sinking into the deepest waters, where sunlight cannot reach. All of him perpetually aches and craves, and he is amazed at what his body is capable of going through before it inevitably breaks down one day.

Mike shifts on the mattress to look out to the midnight blue sky adorned with a few stars, their glimmer muted by the dust clinging to the glass of his window. If Scott wasn't out fucking people to teach his dad a lesson, they'd go find a roof to stargaze, and maybe Mike wouldn't go through all his coke in one night.

It’s been almost two years since Scott has first made his way to the streets. The two of them got strangely intertwined somewhere along the way, forming a bond as strong as it is fragile. It's funny how it works with him and Scott, always in between extremes. He wants Scott, wants him right now, to hold his bones together and help him float, but he also wants to keep him at arm's length and out of sight, because he knows how this ends. The other guys may be spellbound by Scott's silver tongue, believing his inheritance to be a sure way out of the gutter, but Mike sees right through him. Sure, Scott has just waltzed into their slum like he belongs here, and he has held Mike like he's in love with him, but he knows he'll never be one of them like he'll never allow himself to grant Mike something realer.

A pained, trembling sigh escapes his lungs and he feels his eyelids flutter. Maybe he'll feel lighter by the morning, or maybe he'll finally sink for good. Falling into the oblivion of sleep seems to be the only available escape for now, but halfway towards it he is pulled back to consciousness by a piercing sound of glass breaking against wooden floors, followed by howling laughter coming from the hall downstairs. Several voices mend together in boyish hollering, but there's one distinct, breathy laugh that Mike would recognize anywhere. The commotion dies down as quickly as it started, and slow, heavy footsteps echo on the old staircase, creaking at an uneven pace.

Mike watches Scott stumble and stop in the doorway, slurring a curse under his breath. He leans on the door frame with his shoulder, a murky silhouette against the dim light coming from the hallway. His satin shirt is halfway unbuttoned, hair in an unruly mess that tells a tale of how his night went. Mike tries not to think about the hands that ran through Scott's hair. The hands that undressed him, stole the warmth of his body. He's alluring, magnetic, even in the dimness his skin glistens with sweat and Mike wants to either look at him for the rest of his life or rip his own eyes out. Always in between extremes.

"Mikey."

_Shut up_ , Mike thinks sighing inwardly and doesn't answer. There's an ambiguous undertone in his name falling from Scott's lips, but Mike can't decipher it. Regaining balance, Scott takes a couple of unsteady steps and lands on the mattress with a low grunt. Mike jolts with the impact, shifts to his side so he doesn't face Scott. Closing his eyes, he knows that sleep won't come anytime soon. Scott smells like expensive liquor and cheap cigarettes. Floral perfume. Female.

"I've seen you knocked out enough times to tell when you're faking it, Mikey," Scott utters slowly, chuckling to himself out of nowhere.

"What do you want, Scott?" Mike says, and hates how small he sounds.

"Fuck," Scott laugh is dry and Mike can feel him rolling onto his side. "If only I knew, then—then I wouldn’t—", a deep exhale follows, and he never finishes the sentence.

It’s odd, all of this. Scott doesn't drink on the job, certainly not to a point where he can barely walk. He loves to lecture everyone about the dangers of drinking or being on something while working, with his usual poised, holier-than-thou attitude. Mike goes along with it and pretends to listen earnestly, nodding and everything, like it had never occurred to him that his body can end up in a dumpster from a date gone wrong.

Something is stirring up within Scott, that much is clear. The silence hanging in the air is deafening to Mike's ears as he closes his eyes. He feels a weight shift on the mattress, and then Scott's warm breath caressing the back of his neck as he brings his hand to rest on Mike's waist.

All of him stills when he feels Scott's lips press on his nape in long, open-mouthed kisses. Mike feels like his body will crystalize at any moment and burst into countless shimmering shards at the next touch. How long has he wondered what Scott’s lips would feel like against his skin? A rosy tint creeps up his neck as his fingers twitch familiarly. _No, no, no, not now_. The jolt of arousal shoots up his spine as Scott's grip on his waist becomes firmer.

"Wh— Scott, what are you—"

"Can you just— just turn over to me?" Scott's velvety voice hovers over his ear. It has a wistful tone to it that is so disarming, and Mike hates the effect it has on him. Scott's hand moves up and down his side in explorative, tender caresses like he's aware of how fragile Mike can get under his touch. Scott is like a kitten playing with a ball of yarn for the first time. Mike rolls over.

He meets Scott's half-lidded gaze under the pale moonlight filtering through the dirty glass, hitting his parted lips that are stained with the ghostly pigment of lingering lipstick. The hand on Mike's waist stiffly moves up to his neck, thumb brushing over his tense jaw. Scott's bleary eyes come to focus on Mike's features. Both study each other for a lasting moment, breathing each other's air, existing in each other's orbit. It may be that during their exploration Scott's eyes linger on Mike's lips a little too long. With alcohol and whatever else in his system Scott's usually unreadable expression gives way to something much more somber and detached. Or something disturbingly serene, Mike can't decide.

"You're shitfaced, man." He knows it sounds awfully rich coming from him, but seeing the beacon of rationality of their little pack succumb to their ways makes him feel weirdly guilty. Scott wants the world to witness him at his absolute worst, but Mike aches for the waste. At least Scott has something to lose if he's not careful enough. The rest of them are true drifters, chasing a high that will inevitably spiral into a crash.

Not one muscle moves on Scott's face, he just keeps languidly circling his thumb below Mike's earlobe.

"You're pretty," he says, sounding like every middle schooler trying to complement their crush. It's kind of funny. His dark eyes hold a strange glint. "Like, movie star pretty."

"That's what I'm saying, you're _wasted_." Mike chuckles, but it's mostly the adrenaline. It's easier to turn Scott's words into a joke than to acknowledge them to be the reason for the overwhelming heat blooming in his rib cage. He's never been good at taking compliments, mostly because they always felt devoid of any substance. Meaningless phrases thrown out by johns while their mind was entirely elsewhere. It sounds different when it's coming from Scott though, but it shouldn't. _It shouldn't_.

"I'm fine." Scott smiles a slow, lethargic smile and closes his eyes. Mike blinks. It feels like he's only able to take form whenever Scott touches him. If he's been simply misplaced into Mike's life by some random error of the universe, why does being held by him feel like finally falling into place?

"Made bank off this lady today," Scott tries hard not to slur. "Called me Frank or something when we fucked. Then asked to..." he trails off with a soft exhale, furrowing his brows, "...play along. She cried and cried and cried." His smirk wanes at his last words.

Mike lets out a shaky sigh. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"I thought you weren't making money." This earns a weary snort from Scott.

"We're out of food and you can't survive on coke alone, Mike." That one stings a little.

Eyes forlorn and slow, Scott fumbles for Mike's hand and laces their fingers together. Beyond the window, the sky is just starting to fade to the familiar washed-out blue of dawn. The moon sways in Mike's vision, his eyes sore and mind worn out. He wishes to be as hollow as the wide expanse of nothingness behind his conscious mind, yet he's laid here, full to the brim. Full and fragile.

"When I get the money, we'll... I'll take you somewhere nice. Far, far away from this shithole."

_Don't make promises you can't keep_ , Mike wants to scream, but he knows that Scott's recollection of tonight will grow hazy by the morning anyway. He must've fucked up really bad in his past life to deserve Scott perpetually lacing his whole being with this never-ending want gnawing at his sore of a heart, a want that he can do nothing about. Mike watches his half-bare chest rise and fall in slow and steady breaths. Scott will never learn how cruel he is. Nothing will ever hurt more than the _almost_.

Nonetheless, right now it wouldn't kill him to just pretend. If drunken kisses against cold skin and careless promises are all he's allowed to have from Scott, he's going to let himself have it. Scott will continue blurring the lines and Mike will let him, because somewhere down the road he will wake from an episode without Scott's body warmth beside him. Still, his grip on Mike's hand is tight and sure for now. He briefly relishes this feeling as he's teetering on the delicate edge of unconsciousness with a faint tremble in his hands.

"Night, Mikey."

The familiar sinking feeling courses through his body and the world disappears around him. Only the image of Scott's tranquil profile seems to be suspended in his psyche like some unfinished portrait of a saint. Mike hopes the morning will be kinder, but knows he'll wake up nauseous, dizzy and achingly alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> hi <3 
> 
> hope you enjoyed, any and all feedback is always welcome!


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